


Old College Try

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Children, Gen, Humanstuck, Parents & Children, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:35:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Sollux Captor.  Your son is finally coming home after a year with his grandparents, and you are so scared that you're going to mess up again.  You're walking on a tightrope, and Feferi isn't there with a net anymore.</p>
<p>Single dad!Sollux fic, with an eight-year-old Mituna and a potential pairing that should come as no shock to anyone who reads my fic any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> started writing this a while ago, but i figure i should give y'all the first 2 chapters at least. i'm not planning on working on this all the time like i do with midlife crisis, but i hope you guys like it anyway???
> 
> there was a picture floating around tumblr a while ago about sollux being a single parent and i let that idea run away with me basically. :x

            You wait at the terminal for Mituna's plane to come in, watching the people passing you by left and right as you chew on your thumbnail and consider, not for the first time, that this is probably a terrible mistake.  Mituna never should have left New York, where his grandparents had the money and the means and the mental fortitude to watch out for him.  He shouldn't be flying out by himself to LAX.  He shouldn't be coming to stay with you again.

            The intercom chimes for the umpteenth time, talking about the TSA and unattended bags, and you slump down low in your seat, bouncing your leg, chewing on your nail and running your hand through your hair in turns.

            You are a colossal fuck up.

            The flight attendant announces the arrival of flight 1430 from La Guardia and you bolt upright in your seat, as though slouching might be punishable by death.  Since Mituna is an unaccompanied minor, he'll be one of the first people off the plane.  You can't believe they let eight-year-olds fly alone.  You can't believe they let them fly alone to terrified fathers.  But they do, and your parents can't keep watching him, and nobody else can do it, so here you are.

            Through the disembarking groups of families, you see a shock of messy black hair barely contained by the hood of a yellow sweatshirt, a skateboard emblazoned across the front.  Mituna is clutching a hideous, purple stuffed bee in his hands, and his head twists and turns almost cartoonishly as he strains to look for you.  For one hideous second, you imagine yourself running out of the terminal and abandoning Mituna at the airport.

            You are a terrified fuck up.

            "Mituna," you call.  Your voice almost doesn't crack.  Mituna's head turns, and though his hair covers his eyes almost completely in shaggy sheepdog bangs, he must see you, because his face splits into a wide grin and he rushes towards you, two left feet with no traction.  He slips and falls, and you berate yourself for being so fucking stupid as you rush forward.  He looks more surprised than upset, but you still panic.  "Are you okay?  I'm sorry, I shouldn't have- you didn't skin your knee, did you?"

            "You came running," he says, his teeth clacking a little and his voice slurred just slightly from the way his teeth have come in.  "I fell and you came."

            You thought about leaving him.  What the fuck is wrong with you?  "Of course I did," you say, and you've never felt more disgusting.  "You're not hurt?"

            "No," he says.  You help him to his feet; he only lets you hold his stuffed bee for a second or two before he yanks it back.  You try not to take it personally.  Mituna needs his security blanket, something only he can touch, and you know that.

            He doesn't take your hand as you walk; he prefers to run ahead, and you keep a close eye while he does.  The rules for taking care of Mituna come back to you in little bursts and small doses, and you strain to keep it all straight as you follow your eight-year-old son to the baggage carousel.

            God, you hope you don't screw this up again.

* * *

  
            Mituna asks for macaroni and cheese for dinner.  You put on Cartoon Network for him and watch from the kitchen as he curls up with the stuffed bee and some pillows, talking back to the television and repeating the lines he finds funniest.  You try to figure out what you're going to do.  Your parents had private schools and at-home teachers, but you don't have access to either.  You don't know if Mituna will be able to go back to public school.  You missed almost a full year of his life.  What kind of father are you? You couldn't even get your shit together enough to keep your own son around.  God damn it.  This was an awful decision.  Mituna would be better off in New York.

            "Pots overfull," Mituna calls, and you realize the electric range is hissing with boiling over water.  You try not to swear aloud as you scramble to salvage the situation, and Mituna laughs at the television.  He doesn't ask why you live in a different house now - one that's rent controlled and two bedrooms instead of three and in a not-so-family-friendly area.  He doesn't complain about not being near Disneyland any more.  He doesn't even ask to go to Disneyland.

            Something's probably wrong.

            You haven't overcooked the pasta too badly, and you mix in butter and milk and cheese powder.  You ask, "Do you want hotdogs in it?"

            Mituna puts both hands on the back of the couch and looks at you.  "I," he says, then frowns and pauses as he tries to figure out what he wants to say.  He looks frustrated.  "No," he says finally, and you wonder what he really wanted to say.

            "Okay," you say, and you pile macaroni into paper bowls, pour pepper on your dish and carry them out to the couch.

            "We can't eat on the couch," Mituna says, sounding a little distressed.  You shake your head.

            "It's a special occasion," you say.

            "No, we can't," he repeats.  You frown, then shrug and sit on the floor.

            "Okay," you say.  He frowns, then grins wide and slides down onto the floor next to you and takes his bowl, his stuffed bee propped up next to him.  "Did grandmom not want you eating on the furniture?"

            "Nope," Mituna says.  "She never let us eat on the couch.  But once, grandpop let me anyway.  It was ice cream."  He shoves a spoonful of macaroni into his mouth and adds as he chews, "He got chocolate on the cushion."

            "Grandmom didn't like that, huh."

            "Nope!"  Mituna laughs and kicks his leg a little, and you smile at the motion.

            "Well, if you get chocolate on this sofa, I won't be mad.  Promise.  I've spilled on it before."

            He looks round at you.  "Really?"

            "Yep."

            "What about mom?"

            The floor drops out from under you.  You choke down macaroni and shrug.  "I don't know if she did."

            "Oh."

            Mituna pokes at his bowl and then sets it aside.  You know he's upset.  He doesn't show it often, but you know right now that he is.  You hold out your hand, and after a moment, he takes it and holds it with both his own.

            "It's okay," you say.  He nods.

            "Okay."  And then, "No it's not."  His hands squeeze yours, and he squints up at you through his hair.  He won't let you touch it.  "I don't wanna go back to grandmom's, so don't put me back on a plane when you screw up."

            Your stomach twists and you stare at him. "What?"

            "That's what grandpop said to grandmom, I don't wanna stay there any more."

            So your parents know that you're a fuck up.  You guess that's good.  At least the bar's set low for you now.

            "Mituna," you say, "I'm not going to put you on a plane again.  And I'm not going to screw up."  You think you should tell him not to say things like that, but you never really understood the problem so you don't bother.  "I'm sorry you had to leave at all.  I didn't want you to."

            "Then why did I?"

            You remember all the times you told Feferi that you hated dealing with kids because they were always too blunt and you had anxieties about that kind of thing, and then you shake your head and say, "Because I got messed up, and I didn't want you to get messed up like me.  Your mom would've... been really mad if I'd done that to you."

            "Oh."  A pause.  "Well."  Another pause, longer.  "I don't want to go back," he finally repeats.  He looks frustrated again.

            "Is that what you really want to say?" you ask, and he shakes his head.

            "But I don't know how to say it."

            You really, _really_ fucked up here.

            "Well, if you figure out how to say it, then you can tell me.  Okay?"

            He nods.  "Okay.  It really is, now."

            It really, really isn't, but you let Mituna say otherwise.  You put your arm around him and he leans into your side, mumbling character catchphrases as you watch cartoons together on the floor.

* * *

  
            Mituna doesn't like his new school.  You kind of expected that, but the fact remains that when you pick him up from the first day, he starts screaming the moment you get him in the car.  You didn't actually realize he knew some of the words he knows.  God, you hope he didn't learn them from you.  He doesn't seem to hear you when you tell him to buckle up, so you force him to sit still long enough for you to fasten his seatbelt.  He screams about the other kids and the teacher and says, "She used small words with me!  Smaller than the other kids!  And she wouldn't let me have my bee!"

            "I'll talk to her," you say immediately, because fuck that.  You'd wondered why his stuffed animal was sticking out of his backpack.

            "And one of the boys kicked mud on my shoes!"

            "On purpose?"

            "No!"

            "Well, there's not much I can do about that one," you say.  Mituna scowls and punches the car door, and you can't help but snap, "Hey, watch it!"

            "No!" he screams, and he kicks the dashboard.  You're barely past the school.  "I don't want to go back!"

            "It won't be so bad tomorrow," you say.

            "I'm not going back!"

            "You have to," you try to reason, glancing nervously into the rearview mirror, as though someone might take Mituna's distress for some kind of terrible kidnapping job.  "You need to go to school."

            "No!  They use small words and treat me stupid!"  He lets out another string of really colorful swear words, enough to make you blush in embarrassment.

            "Watch your language," you snap, because if Feferi ever heard him saying shit like that, she would've skinned you alive.

            "Watch _your_ fucking language!" Mituna snaps back, and he kicks the glovebox open.  You pull over and put on your hazards.

            "Shut your mouth and listen to me!" you snarl, pushing back your guilt for yelling when Mituna cringes away from you in surprise.  "You _need_ to go to school!  I will talk to your teacher and get everything fixed for you so they don't treat you like that, but you _have to go to school_."

            Mituna stares at you like he's never seen you before, and you feel miserable for it.

            "I'm sorry for yelling," you apologize.

            "You never yell," he says, and you don't want your heart to break any more.

            "I know," you say, and again your voice almost doesn't crack.  "I lost my temper."

            "I don't," Mituna starts, then stops, scowling at himself.  He uses his foot to forcibly shut the glovebox, shaking his head and scruffing up his hair with his hands.  "I don't, I don't, I don't-"

            You wish you could just see what Mituna wanted to say, so he wouldn't have to say it.  "I'm sorry," you say, hoping that it works.  He stares at you for a while.  "I really am," you repeat.

            "Okay," he says.  You know he doesn't believe you.

            "I promise I won't yell at you again," you continue, "I didn't mean to."

            "Okay," he says again.  He crosses his arms, curling his legs up to his chest, and turns his head to look out the window.

            "Is it really okay?" you ask.  He shrugs and doesn't respond.

            You sigh and turn off your hazards, pulling back into traffic.  Mituna hides away in his room as soon as you get him in the apartment, and you immediately call up the school.  Part of you hopes that Mituna's listening to music or something, and not eavesdropping, but most of you hopes that he is.  You hope he hears how fucking angry you are at the teachers who he thinks are treating him like he's stupid, so he knows that you really are sorry that you yelled, and more sorry that school isn't going the way it should.


	2. Chapter 2

            You're just getting back from your lunch break when the school calls you.  The last week and a half have been going pretty good, you think, since Mituna has only complained about the mud-kicking kid and some math worksheets, but as soon as you pick up and the school secretary says Mituna's name, you know that the good streak has come to an end.

            They tell you that he kicked a boy who was teasing him.  You don't think that's really uncalled for, to be honest, but you know better than to say that.

            Then, she tells you that he stormed out of class and they can't find him.

            The only thing you really remember between her saying that and you being in the car is the sound of your heart beating in your ears, and you probably said a whole lot of things you'll regret when they find Mituna hiding in a bathroom or a tree or something, but until then, you fight down a full-blown panic attack and speed across surface streets to get to the school.  You need to keep a cool head, because if you freak out, it'll only make things worse.

            You chant all the mantras you've learned in your head as you pull up by the school, willing yourself to be calm instead of going off the fucking handle.

            The school has already called the police.  You can't help but shout at them, "Where the fuck are the teachers around here?!" and then you need to leave, to look for Mituna outside of the school.  You already know he wouldn't have stayed.  He hates it there.  You should have fucking known better.

            There aren't a lot of places for Mituna to go here, but you know he knows where the CVS is so you decide to start there.  You walk instead of drive - you don't know if you should be driving, and anyway, it'll be easier to catch up to Mituna if you're on foot.  If you're in a car, he might refuse to acknowledge you.

            It only takes ten minutes to walk to the strip mall with the CVS and the Golden Spoon, and you force yourself to calm down as you walk.  Mituna is smarter than most people give him credit for - he's not about to walk into oncoming traffic or something.  He's probably going to see if he has enough money from lunch to get ice cream.  Or a toy or something.  You hope that's what he's doing.

            The CVS parking lot is mostly empty this time of the day - everyone's at work or school, making a twenty-four-hour drugstore not really the place to be.  You don't care.  You just walk right in, starting to sweat a little, and you stop the first employee you find and ask them if they've seen Mituna.

            The gum-chewing girl rolls her eyes and points with a long fingernail out the door.  "Try the ice cream place, pal," she says, and you force yourself not to launch a verbal barrage so fucking severe it'd leave her in a goddamn coma.  Or just rip off her dumb fake nails.  Whichever comes first.  You force both instincts back down and instead roam the aisles as thoroughly as you can in your slowly-rebuilding panic, then leave and decide that yeah, the Golden Spoon is probably a more viable place for an eight-year-old to go.  You must be getting really fucking old, if you think a _drugstore_ is going to pique a hyperactive kid's interest.

            The Golden Spoon is on the other side of the lot; not a far walk usually, but with your current state of mind, it might as well be the Sahara.  You see someone sitting outside at one of the little metal tables, a shock of blond hair in sharp contrast to the mane of black sitting across from him.

            "Oh my god," you say, and then you start jogging, your heart practically seconds from giving out until you reach the curb and see that it _is_ Mituna sitting there, not just a figment of your imagination.  You don't know the guy with the blond hair.  You don't care.  " _Mituna_ ," you gasp, "What the _hell_!"

            "Hi," Mituna says around a spoonful of mint chocolate chip.  The blond turns in his chair to eye you up and down through his shades.  You don't give a shit.  "This is Dave," he adds.

            "You're Mituna's dad, right?"

            You finally turn your head to stare the stranger down, and you notice that he's wearing a CVS apron.

            "Who are you?"

            "This is _Dave_ ," Mituna repeats.

            "Hi."  Dave sticks out his hand.  You don't take it, and soon enough he drops it down again.  "So I know this looks hella sketchy, but I promise I'm not trying to kidnap your kid or anything.  He just sort of showed up and wandered around for half an hour.  I figured out he wasn't with anyone, so..."

            "So you took him for ice cream," you deadpan.  Mituna grins at you and you try not to reach over and whap him upside the head.  You won't, but still.  _Seriously_?  You know he's smart enough to understand all the varieties of the lesson "don't talk to strangers," but apparently as soon as ice cream is involved he forgets all about it.

            "Yeah, it sounds stupid now, but I didn't know if like, he was getting picked up here or what, so.  Yeah, I got him ice cream.  It's on me, by the way."

            "Thanks," you say with complete and utter insincerity, and you look at Mituna.  "You _can't_ just run off like that, Mituna, the _police_ are out looking for you now."

            "Oh," Mituna mumbles.  He looks uninterested.  You have to take a few breaths to calm down.

            "I tried to get him to go back when he told me where he was supposed to be," Dave supplements like he's being helpful, "But he's stubborn as hell, man.  You feed him ox brains or something?"  You raise your eyebrow with pointed slowness, and Dave shifts and sinks lower into his seat.  "Y'know, stubborn as an ox?"

            "I got it, thanks."

            "I don't want to go back," Mituna mumbles again, "The teacher used small words all period again and took away my bee.  And Cronus keeps _kicking me_."

            "It doesn't _matter_ how much you don't like it," you say, trying to ignore Dave as you kneel down next to Mituna's chair.  "You _have_ to go back.  Everyone has to do things they don't like, sometimes."

            "The school at grandmom's was better," Mituna says.  "I never ran."

            Sometimes you wish you'd taken your parents offer up, to have them keep Mituna indefinitely, because of shit like this.  You chew your lip.

            "I can't get you into a school like that," you say quietly.  "You know that."

            "No," he says, "No I don't, I don't know anything."

            "That's not true, and you know it," you say.

            "You're smarter than me," Dave adds.  Mituna looks at him, and you do too - most people get the hint about private affairs pretty fucking quick, so what's this kid's deal?

            Then, Mituna grins a little and says, "Yeah, you're a dumbass."

            You know you're probably supposed to warn Mituna against insulting other people, but you're going to let this one slide.  Every so often, your son has it spot on, and you're not about to tell him otherwise.  Who are you to smother his honest streak?

            "Got it in one.  Barely even scraped together a high school diploma.  So trust me, you know more than I do, little man."

            Dave chews on his lip suddenly, like he hadn't meant to say anything at all, and you can't really blame him for feeling like that.  He really probably shouldn't have gotten involved at all.

            But he did, and Mituna's safe, and you guess it's better that someone kept an eye on him instead of letting him get bored in CVS and wander off without a chaperone.  He's probably kept Mituna distracted for half an hour, which is... okay, admittedly, that's a pretty impressive feat.  Mituna usually gets bored with adults pretty fast.

            Shit.

            "Look.  Dave - uh.  Thanks for keeping an eye on him.  Sorry."

            "Nah, don't sweat it.  Better use of my time than restocking Durex."

            You give him a lopsided smile at that, because you guess it's a little funny, then look at Mituna.  "We have to go back now, okay?" you ask.

            "I guess," he says, and he picks up his cup of ice cream.  "Can Dave come?"

            "I think he's got shelves to stock," you say.

            "Sorry, dude."

            Mituna frowns, and you find yourself looking at Dave for some way out.  Of _course_ your son takes a shine to a teenager with a G.E.D., why would you expect otherwise?

            "Hey, next time I see you in the store, I'll hook you up with more ice cream," Dave says, shrugging his shoulders and pushing himself out of his seat.  "Sound good?"

            Mituna nods.  He doesn't look much happier, but he doesn't refuse to hold your hand when he gets out of his chair and steps to the curb.  You look back at Dave once more.  "Seriously," you say.  "Thank you."

            "No problem, man.  Don't be stranger, okay, little dude?"

            Mituna nods again and offers a smile this time, which is his way of trying to pacify everyone else, and then he lets you lead him away, back across the parking lot towards the school.

            "I'm going to have a talk with your teacher when we get back," you say.

            "Good," Mituna says, "I don't like it when she acts like I'm stupider than Cronus.  Cronus is the real moron."

            "Not even real morons can be kicked, though," you say.  Mituna hangs his head.

            "But he kicks me and treats me stupid and says chief a lot."

            "...Okay, well, maybe if you only kick him when there aren't teachers around.  And only in self-defense."

            "Okay."

            You know that if Feferi were here, she would have chastised both of you for thinking that kicking another kid was an appropriate reaction to being bullied, but she isn't here.  Every time you tell Mituna something, though, you can't help but think what she would have to say about it - would she agree with you?  Would she give you that look over Mituna's head, the one that meant that you were being a bad parental figure, too used to treating everyone like crap to realize that your sardonic realism has no place in parenthood?

            You know she'd be telling you off for encouraging violence right now.  You know you're supposed to be raising Mituna with her guidance, not just your own - even if you have to imagine it.  But just thinking about her and what she'd say right now makes the semi-permanent lump in your throat swell, and when you get back to the school and get things cleared up with the cops, you have to go into one of the bathrooms and throw up before you can even think of having a talk with anyone, much less a teacher.

            She doesn't want to have the conversation in front of Mituna.  You don't care.  Mituna doesn't, either; when he sits down next to you in front of her desk, he gives her the level-eyed stare through his bangs that Feferi used to give people when she knew you were about to rip them apart.  It makes you smile a little, just before you turn to face her and let loose a verbal smackdown so fucking fierce that she gets pale and looks like she's about to faint.  You don't swear once.  Mituna just stares at her.  He's heard you use your getting-shit-done voice on the phone enough to know that you're on his side when you use it with his teacher.

            "If my son comes home one more time," you say, "And tells me that you've been treating him any differently from the rest of the kids in his class, or that you've been taking away his things, I swear to God I will sit in on every class you have with him and _remind you constantly_ not to treat him like he doesn't understand the basic concepts that you're trying to teach him.  If you can't even pretend to think that he's fully capable of understanding the same instructions that his classmates are given, despite the fact that the only trouble he has is with reading comprehension and written math equations, _not_ instruction, then you _are not_ going to teach my son any more."

            She nods, all pale and horrified and looking at Mituna like he's going to help her out.  He really, really isn't.  "Do you want me to look into transferring him to a different class?" she asks, ducking her eyes to look at a file on her desk.  "There are some special education classes-"

            "What did I just say?"  You turn your head to look at Mituna.  He breaks his gaze reluctantly from his teacher to look back at you.  "Have you ever needed special education, Mituna?"

            "Nope.  Never not once, except for with math, but you do that now."

            "Good.  Then I guess we can just find another class for you.  Who else teaches second grade here?"

            The teacher opens her mouth, but you hold up a hand and keep Mituna's gaze on you.  He blinks a few times, then shrugs his shoulders and kicks his feet.  " Ms. Maryam," he says.  "I like her.  She uses three syllables on me sometimes.  And she likes my bee."

            "How about her?" you ask the teacher.  She cringes when you look at her.

            "I think her class is full," she says.

            "Ask her anyway.  The sooner we figure out who's replacing you in Mituna's life, the sooner we can go home."

            It takes five minutes to get a hold of Ms. Maryam on the phone, but only a minute later, she comes sweeping into the room as though it were her own.  She's tall and willowy, with cropped dark hair and bright green eyes, and when she sees Mituna, she smiles.

            "Sorry it took me so long.  What can I help you with, Mr. Captor?"

            She's talking to Mituna.  You raise an eyebrow at the teacher, as if to ask her what the fuck she thinks she's doing, making Mituna feel stupid when there are teachers who treat him like at least something near his actual age.  Mituna grins wide and says, "I'm getting someone in trouble!"

            "I can see that," she says, faintly amused, and she looks to you.  "I have been told you would like to see about changing Mituna's class to mine.  If you think that it would be more appropriate, of course, I am completely willing to take him."

            "Perfect," you say.  "He's the one who asked, I'm just making sure he's actually getting what he needs."

            "Completely understandable.  Mituna, I will see you tomorrow - and please try not to run away from my class, if you would.  I would prefer to see you come to me if something is bothering you.  I like calling the police about as much as you enjoy mathematics."

            Mituna nods his head so hard that you think he might get whiplash, and his former teacher is so quick to excuse herself that you're pretty sure she's going to go cry in the bathroom or post about this on her blog or something.  You don't give a shit.  Mituna's happy, and that means you're happy.

            Or at least, it means you feel better about following your son's skipping form through the school, back to the car.  This is one situation, at least, that you think Feferi would've been pleased to see - though you don't know if she would have appreciated you showing Mituna that you know how to pick locks when you went to get his stuffed bee out of the filing cabinet.


End file.
